The Problem Of The Pantheistic Poet

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First questions first, are all poets drawn to nature as a subject pantheists? I would say no but! But most such poets are pantheistic in their inclinations. Indeed why dedicate oneself to nature with such devotion? One could argue, and this will actually explain a lot about the lesser writers of the pantheistic strain, that there may be some sort of social limitations in such a person. I say this because without a doubt the most interesting and complex creatures on our planet are humans, not plants, not nature, nor Nature. But these human creatures are in love with nature; they worship it in writing; don’t let them fool you, they are not hyperbolizing when they offer their worship to the natural world.

Because I recently stumbled on a publication that publishes such work almost exclusively, though they don’t ask in their mission statement for such work (or fetish), I’ll use an example from this outlet to demonstrate all that can go wrong when writing in this vein.

We know that there is a rich history of poets writing of nature, notably the Romantics, but even those before and since, men who were good poets, who even made a mark in the Western Canon, back in the days when you had to have some skill to find consistent publication, an age so bygone it is laughable. But our current poet, and others in the same publication, is not a good poet; she is more of a botanist who writes, a cataloguer of the products of nature. And this cataloguer is a bona fide hack. Don’t get me wrong, her poetry is not horrible, perhaps it’s almost even mediocre. I’ll go through the poem and its lack in enough detail to make my point, and then I’ll share the work of a poet known to be not only good but often great, a poet whose work I at one time did not enjoy, but whose work I have more recently come to really appreciate in a way I would never have expected.

Here’s the subpar work, literally pantheistic, and most notably a poem with a cataloguing bent:

Homage to the Smokies by Susan Maeder

Start with the bees.

Pray for them,

for their brizz and bumbling

into the honeyed cores of flowers —

showy orchis, cutleaf toothwart,

phlox and painted trillium,

fire-pinks and bluets,

gay wings, wild geranium, rue.

Pray for the mottled trunks of trees,

straight–shot or hobbled,

for their clambering roots

and the rocks they grasp,

holding their own in the river’s crush.

Pray for the river.

Pray for the heedless gush

of the torrent

and the silent pools

where the clouds and all the leaves

are doubled, the new fish darting

among them, swifter than birds.

Pray for the birds, their eachness,

the startling flush of their flight,

their song, their patient nests.

Ask that the wren and the warbler,

tufted titmouse, sweet phoebe,

and the flicker all endure.

Pray for the Great Horned Owl.

Speak their names into the breaking day.

Because I’ve recently written an essay on the unifying principle beyond even theme, calling this unifying concept, the concept, funny enough, I’ll approach that aspect of the poem. Note first that I only came upon this concept because some of the more recent poetic offerings and their unity, their organic continuity and contiguity, can not be explained in terms of theme or any other element commonly used to evaluate and create poetry. And this notion of the concept involves the constant among every part of the poem and the poem in its entirety. It is the archetype whence the poem in whole and in part comes, a point of commonality that exists throughout the poem. And we do not see this in the poem at hand. Such depth of origin is not at all apparent in this work. It is a mess of heaps. This poem is just a bunch of ideas thrown together with the hope for a common theme, nature and the worship thereof. Let’s begin piecing apart this piecemeal poem:

Start with the bees.

Pray for them,

for their brizz and bumbling

into the honeyed cores of flowers —

showy orchis, cutleaf toothwart,

phlox and painted trillium,

fire-pinks and bluets,

gay wings, wild geranium, rue.

A gripe that comes immediately to mind is the lining of the thing. Why can’t we pray for bees on the same line that we start with them? Another quality that is seen lacking right away is depth; these types of poems avoid going below the surface of things; the depth of the observer is lacking as well. Profundity why? Yet we must admit to a bit of music. About the bee and the flower, this is a sound description of a process, the bee gathering nectar (and also it is understood that the bee may pollinate the flowers). But then it’s as if she gets too excited by this natural process and starts cataloguing various plants (out of habit?), nine in total so far, in addition to the original “core of flowers.” The obvious question of any alert critic of this sort of thinking is: why should we pray to the bee? It is an insect, right? I mean, I’m not well-versed in the science of bees, but I at least think that it’s an insect. So, why pray to an insect. And atheists think the idea of praying to a god is ridiculous.

Pray for the mottled trunks of trees,

straight–shot or hobbled,

for their clambering roots

and the rocks they grasp,

holding their own in the river’s crush.

Pray for the river.

And we are again instructed to pray, to the “trunks of trees.” Okay, there is a personification of the roots, not much, a clambering and grasping and a holding of their own. But now we receive the edict that we must “pray for the river.” Yes, there is a touch of music and the lyricism is not horrible, but where is the depth, the pull, the poesy? The “river’s crush” is a nice substitute for ‘rush,’ but what is the appeal of all this?

Pray for the heedless gush

of the torrent

and the silent pools

where the clouds and all the leaves

are doubled, the new fish darting

among them, swifter than birds.

Now a slight personification, heedless, but we are also enjoined to worship the “gush of the torrent” and “the silent pools.” There is a physical description implied in the reflection of the water; apparently she doesn’t care that when a river is “gushing” in a “torrent” it is less likely to reflect that above. This may be why Monet tended to paint still waters, in order to capture the reflection. And an animal enters with a trite “dart,” and we’re reminded that fish swim faster than birds fly. I don’t know about you, but I’ve known this since I was five years old or even younger. This is a perfect example of the heap and the heaping of part on part, taping piece to piece in inorganic (ironic, right?) continuity. The repetition of “pray” also points to another phenomenon, a poet’s attempt to create unity through repetition, but this sort of repetition must be done very skillfully; the poet must possess enough intelligence to know when such repetition is effective (Wallace Stevens and Walt Whitman come immediately to mind, two masters of this usage; even Allen Ginsberg could be a source of study for our present poet’s improved use of the technique). I think, “faster than a speeding bullet” would be a more interesting and amusing comparison for the speed of the fish darting. I mean, already I’m to the point at which I’d rather a laugh to more of this pushing of outworn tropes. Let’s finish this already. The rest of the poem:

Pray for the birds, their eachness,

the startling flush of their flight,

their song, their patient nests.

Ask that the wren and the warbler,

tufted titmouse, sweet phoebe,

and the flicker all endure.

Pray for the Great Horned Owl.

Speak their names into the breaking day.

Again, we’re enjoined to pray for her most recent mention of a living noun. Yet there is the quality of the term “eachness,” which would be much more interesting if it made sense in context, or even nonsense in space. Then we get the best line of the poem; what a shame that these poems can actually show potential. Does that not make them worse? The “startling flush of their flight,” alliteration and the mixing-up of water and air. Okay, we have bees, flowers, a list of plants, trees, a river, fish, then birds. Is there some underlying something connecting them all? Okay, more itsy-bitsy personification of nests, more birds, and a “flicker.” An owl to worship . . . and we are to “speak their names,” no doubt in prayer, “into the breaking day.” This line, because of its complete lack of context, contrast, or relevance to anything that adds up to or starts from anything—this line is garbage that stands out as pure offal in that it is the finale, the dramatic last line. If this poem does not illustrate the theory of the concept perfectly through its lack, I don’t know what will. This is a mesh of heaps set to line, not completely lacking in lyrical delivery, but not lyrical enough to be worthwhile. I’ll not even mention the title. Try to convince an editor of what I just illustrated. Enough of that. Now a work of quality, a work of high standards, the all-too-famous:

Stopping by the Woods on a Snowy Evening by Robert Frost, of course.

Whose woods these are I think I know.

His house is in the village though:

He will not see me stopping here

To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer

To stop without a farmhouse near

Between the woods and frozen lake

The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells to shake

To ask if there is some mistake.

The only other sound’s the sweep

of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep.

But I have promises to keep,

And miles to go before I sleep,

And miles to go before I sleep.

Notice right away that this poem contains some of the elements of the earlier lesser poem, yet all elements are used with the utmost skill. I especially want my reader to notice that, even though this is a very simple narrative, it adds up to something, something I’ll call the patented Robert Frost nostalgic ‘moment’ caught in a poem as if in a trap. Even though this is simply a poem that is literally everything its title says, and little more, it is an incredibly profound expression of this ‘moment.’ Really, if you examine the language, it seems so simple, even basic, but in toto it is so much more. Not only is narrative used as a tool of unity, the whole work appears to be a seamless whole, from the first word to the last. Every part is necessary, essential even. Although on the surface the poem is a mere description of an event and its mostly physical characteristics, one can sense behind these lines something meaningful, more meaningful than any element of the poem. There is an almost startling unity that is brought to a head with the last two lines, those that repeat in the most significant way, when considered in the context of the poem as a whole. Indeed I can say that those last two lines point out the significance of the entire work. I hope you can sense the impression I get, which I think is the intended impression. The last two lines build on the line preceding, “I have promises to keep.” That one line contains more depth than the entire narrative preceding, and with the next line, doubled, we see a profundity and a completion. Some may say that this poem is not flawless, but you must admit to the magic of its workings. And to think, he has so many more works of the sort.

As I said, it is only more recently that I have come to truly appreciate the rare talent of Robert Frost. I even now believe that he stands beside my own favorite, Wallace Stevens, as one of the true and indisputable poetic masters of the time. These men in fact put the bygone masters in their place. Back to the subject, let us note that Robert Frost, unlike the contemporary pantheists of little merit, always connects nature in all of its forms to what is distinctly human. Don’t let this master of the poetic tradition fool you, he had his priorities in order, and the depth of his sanity and insight shows in all of his works.

Now, let it be understood before I finish up here, I don’t expect every poet who writes of nature to possess the talent of a Frost. I simply use his work because it stands as an exemplar (in the higher sense), a beacon of greatness and human clarity for those who would take on themes similar to his own. Certainly we could expect at some point in the future to uncover a poet with the craft of a Frost but with an ingenuity and complexity that he could not express; just imagine, if you will, a future lover of the natural even more possessed of genius than this man, a pantheist worth the name. Let us pray . . .

To avoid any issues of copyright, the poem, “Homage to the Smokies,” is from the online magazine, Albatross.

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